I try to focus on the number of steps I am taking, try to remember where we turn, how many doors we pass through, how the floor changes beneath my feet. Parquet, marble, carpet, parquet. But we walk for so long and pass through so many chambers that after a time it becomes impossible to remember the sequence. I can recall the length of the first passage and three of the ensuing rooms, the fragrant, jumbled scent of potpourri and dried rose petals in the first, a crackling fire in the third, and then it all becomes tangled together and I am lost.
We are descending stairs now. Stairs? Are there more levels than one in this palace? The air turns dank. My shoes scuff against stone. We are in a close space for a brief moment, and with my vision snuffed out, it seems my nose seeks to make up for it, capturing every nuance and shade of scent around me: Father’s perfumes, matting the air like fur—, cloves and freesia and rich ointments. The slightly mildewed smell of clothing, sweat and silk and wool. Something flat and dull from Havriel, like salt and stone. A key is inserted into a lock, followed by the soft grind of many prongs sliding back.
Huge metal hinges yawn open. I am pushed forward. The blindfold loosens from my head. I blink.
I am standing in a banquet hall. The colors here are entirely red and black, a disconcerting, flickering panorama, deep shadows and black wood and ruddy brocade. Even the light seems red, a murky, bloody glow.
Behind me Father is snuffling with excitement. Havriel remains impassive as a mountain. I turn and see the door we came through. It is like none I have ever seen before, low and built of iron—thick as a wall, its surface a labyrinth of bolts and complex gear systems.
“Look,” says Father. “Look, Aurélie!”
My gaze darts around the hall, adjusting to the red light.
I see a long table, many chairs, dim, low-hanging chandeliers, tongues of red flame smoldering behind the crystals.
“I do not know what I should be seeing,” I say coldly.
Havriel goes to a brass knob beside the door and turns it with a soft squeak. The red lights flare, not brighter, but hotter.
I peer into the blaze. Someone is seated in the shadows at the end of the table. It is a woman. She wears a towering gray wig, ornamented with jewels and a small boat. Her neck is slender, her shoulders delicate. Her great skirts are so wide they spill around the corners of the table, a watery foam of white and blue.
I see her face.
My skin seems to detach from me, loosening from bone and muscle as if it seeks to escape. Father is speaking, but his voice rings hollow, echoing up from the bottom of a well. The red lights reduce to pinpricks.
It is Mama. She is lovely, her mouth a glimmering crimson bow. I see her bust rising and falling beneath a necklace of sapphires. She is breathing. Alive.
She catches sight of me and raises her hand, waving. “Aurélie, my sweet!” she calls out, and her voice is high and soft. I see a bullet, bursting slowly from the mouth of a gun, blood creeping over cloth, a pretty face, dripping tears––
It cannot be.
We collapse just inside the doors. I can’t feel my legs. I can’t feel anything but pain, like a swarm of microscopic insects burrowing into my flesh.
“Hayden,” I mumble. Something bitter and chalky is coating my tongue. “Hayden?”
There’s no way it’s him. I saw him die.
I’m looking along the floor at the others. My vision is blurry, all flickering shadows and sudden, poisonous bursts of color when someone moves.
I see Lilly and Jules. They’re scratching between their fingers, spitting on them, tears streaming down their faces. At least they have fingers. Will is next to them. His right hand is half gone, three of his digits burned to nubs. He’s hunched over, eyes closed, teeth gritted.
I try to sit up. I feel my cheek knock against the floor, and I realize I have absolutely no sense of balance. The chandeliers are out, replaced by a murky green glow. Emergency lighting. Dorf’s voice is droning somewhere in the distance. Muffled. Thumping.
And Hayden’s still here. He hasn’t turned into a hallucination and disappeared. He’s kneeling next to Will, trying to pry his arm away from his chest.
I get myself into a semi-upright position. Immediately feel like I’m going to vomit. My skin is stiff and dry, like the outside layer has hardened into a shell. My legs are still attached. That’s cool. They feel like deadweights, prickly stumps, but at least they’re there.
I rub the side of my face. Flakes of skin come off on my fingertips. A tuft of hair.
“Hayden,” I rasp, and I sound like a wicked witch, a million years old. “I saw them kill you.”
Hayden turns. His face flickers oddly in the shadows and the green light. He leaves Will. I catch a whiff of him as he approaches. Oh, gross. He smells rank. Worse than us, and I doubt we smell like roses, either, after this many hours down here. It’s a blood smell, and also dirt and damp, sweaty clothes, and something dark, hot, tarry.
“Yeah, well, I felt them kill me. Stop scratching; you’ll spread the poison. Wave your arms to get the particles off and don’t put your fingers near your mouth.”
I stare at him. Blink. Behind my eyelids I see: Hayden, lying on the floor of the cube room. Miss Sei, trailing a thumb along his brow. The nozzle driving in––